


Needs Must

by Mount_Seleya



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Cousin Incest, F/M, Half-Sibling Incest, Life-Affirming Sex, Literally Dirty Sex, Not Beta Read, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, References to Violence/Torture, Showverse, Wall Sex, valarmorekinks prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-27 14:40:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7622563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mount_Seleya/pseuds/Mount_Seleya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa convinces Jon to give her what she needs immediately after dealing with Ramsay. Spoilers for "Battle of the Bastards."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Needs Must

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the following [prompt](http://valar-morekinks.livejournal.com/3336.html?thread=1640968#t1640968) on the valar_morekinks LJ community: "After Ramsay's death, Sansa finds Jon lurking in another part of the kennels. She decides they should bang like a screen door in a hurricane, so they have sex against a wall. Bonus points, if Jon hasn't bathed yet, and neither one of them talk about it after they finish."
> 
> In "Battle of the Bastards," Jon evidently bathed soon after the battle, since he's clean in the scene in which Rickon's body is carried in and Sansa asks him where they've taken Ramsay, but I decided to ignore that bit to more closely follow the prompt.

She doesn't know if what she's feeling is justice or relief or satisfaction. All she knows is that it's _over_ , that each small, swishing stride toward the murky blue glow of twilight at the entrance to the kennels puts Ramsay Bolton further behind her.  
  
"Sansa," a voice says, so softly it's almost lost over the savage snarls carrying down the corridor from the last enclosure.  
  
Gazing out at her from the half-shadow is a face that might have been frightening if it wasn't familiar. Jon's eyes are bottomless black, glittering in the low, wavering orange light of the torch mounted nearby on the ancient stone wall. The stench of battle is still thick on him, mud, blood, and sweat plastering his hair and face and clothing.  
  
"Are you all right?" he asks, his concern evident despite the hoarse timbre of his voice.  
  
She doesn't want to talk. She wants to forget. She wants to stop wanting. To finally have something, just for herself. This man fought for her _._ Bled for her while the beast they'd made her husband stayed clean as a sept.  
  
"Be quiet," she tells him, lifting her right hand and flattening it against the centre of his chest. The thick layer of grime caked on the front of his leather jerkin feels rough against her palm as she pushes him back against the wall.  
  
"Sansa?" he says uncertainly.  
  
Taking advantage of her slightly greater height, she leans forward and captures his mouth in a hard, desperate kiss. The sour tang of mud washes across her tongue, but below it is the taste of warmth and life, of Jon Snow. His hands rise after a moment of hesitation, one cupping the back of her head, the other settling between her shoulders.  
  
When they finally pull apart, he whispers, "We shouldn't be doing this, Sansa. It isn't right."  
  
"I don't care," Sansa replies, running her palms slowly down his chest. "I want this, Jon. I need this. Need _you_."  
  
It's true. She's yearned for him in this way from the very first blow he dealt to Ramsay Bolton's jaw. From that first glimpse of raw, primal fury on his usually solemn and stoic face, the first ripple of violence in his calm demeanour. Maybe, even, from the time he'd slowly descended the stairs at Castle Black and thrown his arms around her. After Joffrey, she stopped believing there were any good men left, men who could be fierce and loyal and gentle by turn. They were a thing of songs, like sweet princes and fair maidens, a thing for stupid, ignorant little girls.  
  
With sure, eager fingers, she quickly unfastens the buckles of the straps on the right side of his filth-encrusted jerkin. He catches her slender wrist in a firm grip when she moves to undo the buckles on the left side.  
  
"It'll only get in the way," she explains, an edge of irritation entering her voice.  
  
"Sansa," Jon says again. This time it's a warning. A challenge.  
  
Jerking her hand free, she undoes the remaining buckles, then steps back to let him to pull the jerkin over his head. The heavy garment hits the ground with a _thwump_. He yanks off his black leather gloves and tosses them down.  
  
A sharp, shaking gasp escapes her when he seizes her hips, whirling her around and pressing her back against the wall. His fingers bunch in the heavy, black brocade of her dress, rucking its skirt and the underlying shift up to her waist in a series of rough tugs.  
  
Nuzzling into the curve of her neck, his breath gusting warm across her ear, he asks, "Is this what you want?"  
  
Impatience spikes through her gut. Then she realises what he's giving her. What his words _mean_. She can tell him to fuck her or send him away with his balls full and aching, and he'll obey all the same, because she's the one in control.  
  
"Yes," she breathes.  
  
Her smallclothes fall away a moment later. She parts her thighs, and he slips two fingers inside of her, twists them. "You're so wet," he growls into her ear, his thumb finding her pearl and flicking across it repeatedly.  
  
"Oh, gods," she gasps, her head falling back against the stone wall.  
  
There'd been whispers at Castle Black that he'd taken a wildling lover. That she'd stolen his heart and his virtue. None of that matters now. All that matters is that he knows what to do with his fingers, and that he _cares_.  
  
"Come on, Sansa," Jon urges in a low, harsh whisper. "Let me see you come undone."  
  
It takes another half a minute, but finally something snaps low in her belly, and sweet pleasure washes through her. She screws her eyes shut, her thighs trembling with the force of it, and Jon's left hand clamps around her hip to steady her.  
  
When Sansa's eyes flutter open, she finds Jon looking at her, his gaze impossibly black in his muck-smeared face. Reaching down, she unties the lacings of his breeches, pushes them down the curve of his arse. He grasps her hips, pinning her against the wall as he settles between her thighs, and she hitches her legs around his waist.  
  
There's an awkward moment of alignment, and then he slips inside of her, sinks deeper slowly. She lets out a soft, sighing moan, clutching at the back of his head, his filth-matted hair crunching slightly under her touch.  
  
"Ah, Sansa," Jon groans into the crook of her neck. "Gods, you feel so sweet." Mouthing at the tender skin just below her ear where her pulse throbs, he begins to move, shallow, rocking thrusts that leave her wanting.  
  
" _Harder_ ," she demands. "Fuck me, Jon. Just fuck me."  
  
He obliges, his hips snapping forward vigorously, filling the shadowed corridor with the sound of flesh meeting flesh. Sansa arches her lower back, struggling to meet every thrust, her hands becoming claws on the back of his head. It's filthy and glorious and exactly what she needs to momentarily stop feeling like a stranger within her own body.  
  
"Fuck," he hisses, pulling out of her suddenly and spending into the folds of her rucked-up skirt.  
  
They stand gathering their breath and gazing into each other's eyes for a minute. Then Sansa lets her skirt and shift slither down to her ankles, and Jon tucks himself back into his breeches, bending to pick up his jerkin and pulling it over his head. Something in the set of his jaw as he works to fasten the buckles tells her he's already feeling ashamed of himself. _Don't_ , she wants to say, but he's pointedly avoiding her eyes, staring at an indeterminate point between himself and the wall.  
  
"I need a bath," he remarks after an uneasy stretch of silence, pulling on a leather glove. "I smell like a midden."  
  
"I'll have hot water sent to your chamber," she offers hastily.  
  
"Thanks," he says. His eyes find hers, dark and searching, and for an instant she thinks he might ask her to join him. But he turns and walks out of the stone archway into the cold of winter.


End file.
